Chapter One: Personal Business

Author note - In a repeat of my note from the Prologue: spoilers for 02x16: You Think You Know Someone. Pretty much the entire episode. And I am using dialogue from the episode. This story is the sixteenth in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Catch Me When I Fall".

Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.

2 hours earlier

Greg Parker allowed a smile as he guided his car through the morning traffic. Even with a few months of work and recovery behind him, he still wasn't taking life – or driving – for granted; it remained a precious gift after the experience of his hearing and vision going totally haywire. In the background, the news reporter informed him rather cheerfully about the various backups in traffic and offered up the hourly weather forecast. His phone, sitting on the center console, chirped at him; he scooped it up and thumbed the power button to see the text message on the screen:

HELP
ALLEY BTWN
SHUTER & VIC
-HALEY

The SRU Sergeant set his jaw and changed direction, already dialing a new number into his phone.

Team One was assembled in the briefing room, surveying their latest assignment. Wordy walked up to the projector screen, a panel of high-quality frosted glass with a clear border, and pointed to a particular spot on the screen. "This is the softest area- right there."

"He's right," Lou agreed from his spot at the foot of the table; the less-lethal specialist's eyes danced as his best friend hurried up to offer his own opinion.

Spike pointed to a different spot, declaring, "Please, we start here. We're way better covered."

"Give it up, Patton," Sam shot the tech down from his own spot mid-table.

Lou considered half a second, then, with a little gesture towards Wordy, said, "He's still right."

Spike regarded Lou with mock-horror. "Et tu, Lou? What, you got a thing for Wordy?" Without waiting for a reply, Spike steam-rolled on with, "No, no, that's what it is." As their team leader entered, a gray folder in hand, Spike called, "Ed, best entry point today. Best P.O.E."

Ed took one look at the screen and remarked, "First one, obviously."

"You got a thing for Wordy, too?" Spike demanded.

Ed leaned against the table, drawling, "Who doesn't? But the first one is still the right P.O.E." Brisk, he moved on, opening the folder in his hands. "Okay, guys, go day on this warrant. To recap, El Coleros President Tony Pranso- he's wanted for racketeering, attempted murder, the list goes on. We go in tonight." Ed's phone went off as he finished the recap; as he pulled the phone out, he added, "Close Quarters Battlehouse drill thirty minutes." To the man on the other end, he said, "Hey, Boss."

"Hey, Eddie," Greg greeted, sounding a bit uneasy. "Something came up; I'm gonna be a little late."

"Anything serious?"

A brief pause, as if Greg was considering what to share. Then, with a verbal shrug, Greg informed him, "Got an SOS from an old friend of mine."

Ed straightened up. "Anything I can do?"

"SOS is from a pretty sketchy area, Eddie, but I can handle it."

"Where?" Ed demanded, no give in his voice.

There was a hesitation, then his boss 'fessed up. "Shuter and Victoria."

Ed almost hissed, sketchy was putting it mildly. "Greg," he started in protest.

"I'll see you in an hour," Greg replied, firm, no compromise.

The team leader gave in; he had to start trusting that Greg could handle himself again at some point. "Okay, Boss."

"All right," Greg agreed, before hanging up.

Ed lowered the phone, still worried. Burying his concern, he turned, calling, "Guys, change of plan. We'll do the drill in an hour thirty."

Spike's reaction was predictable; with a clap, he yelled, "All right. Free time!"

Already heading out, Ed retorted, "Not likely. Outside fifteen minutes. Full gear. Let's go. We're doing sprints." He hid his smirk; the stifled groans and silent glares at Spike didn't have to be seen to be enjoyed.

The slate blue, four-door Chevy Impala LS pulled into the alley, its owner already courting a few second thoughts. He couldn't see Haley anywhere in the alley, which was crowded with homeless of all types and descriptions, his gut was pinging, and his instincts were prompting the hairs on the back of his neck to rise. Wary, he parked his car and got out, shoulders tensing further as a rail-thin, scruffy junkie approached him almost immediately. He wore tattered jeans, a faded yellow shirt, a blue jacket, and a backwards facing yellow ball cap. White hair poked out from beneath the hat and the junkie had a thick layer of white fuzz, marking the start of what would probably become a scraggly beard. A snake was tattooed around the man's neck, standing out even with the shirt and jacket on. The Sergeant let his wariness show in his stiff shoulders and set jaw; he wanted nothing to do with junkies or what they were peddling.

As the stranger spoke, Greg's gut pinged louder; he stiffened even more, unconsciously shifting his feet to be ready for a fight. "Hey. You looking to score?"

"No." Greg replied, brusque. "Looking for someone."

The junkie didn't take the hint. "Well, maybe I can help. I know everybody around here."

That earned the pest a clipped, "No, thanks." Greg leaned against his car, but was careful to not turn his back to the junkie, tension ratcheting up the longer the stranger hung around.

"You sure I can't…" the junkie trailed off with a groan, clutching at his stomach. His free hand found the top of trunk, the arm trembling.

Unable to help himself, Greg asked, "You all right?"

"Oh, yeah," the man gasped out. "Oh, I'm fine. I… Not fine." With that, he collapsed on the trunk lid, gasping and wheezing.

Screaming instincts or not, it was Greg's nature to help, if he could. With an internal groan, he turned and grabbed onto the junkie, holding him steady on the lid as he said, "It's okay. You're all right." He pulled back a little, repeating, "It's okay. It's okay." His free right hand dug his phone out as he informed the stricken man, "I'm going to call 911. I'm going to get you help."

Thanking his training, he speed dialed 911, the operator picking up with a brisk, "911, what is your emergency?"

"My name is Sergeant Greg Parker. I'm with the SRU. There's a possible overdose in an alley at Shuter and Victoria."

Focused on his call and the victim, he never heard the van driving up behind him, didn't realize until it was too late what his instincts had been trying to tell him. At the sound of an engine, he turned, only to be shoved forward by the 'overdose victim' into the open van door. He sprawled on the van's floor and never got a chance to fight back as a blackjack descended on his head, knocking him out.

The man in the back of the van reached out to close the door, prompting an alarmed, "Hey. Hey!" from the white-haired junkie. As the van screeched away, he yelled, "What about me?" Nervous, he retrieved his yellow ball cap from the trunk of the blue sedan and hurried away, oblivious to three things: a old bag lady pushing a cart who'd seen the whole thing, the dropped phone on the ground with the 911 operator still on the line, and a pulsing, magical alert that pinged six near-identical phones kilometers away.